


Fancy Dress

by geekmama



Series: All Holiday [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 14:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: The British Museum is hardly the place...





	Fancy Dress

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Writers Choice" prompt: Halloween (and really it has little to do with the holiday except for the notion of wearing a costume). I have a feeling I have the environs of the British Museum a bit wrong, but just go with it.
> 
>  
> 
> ************************

A few weeks in he is no longer thrown into buffering mode every time he sees her. He’s able to look on appreciatively as she exits the cab he’d sent to fetch her, able to keep to a minimum the (fascinating / inconvenient) physical reactions the mere sight of her had evoked those first days after they’d altered their relationship in the oldest way known to man (intellectually he finds it mortifying that he is no different than the common herd; viscerally there is a constant sense of astonishment at the profundity of each encounter, coupled with a strange yet deeply satisfying feeling of connectedness, to her... to himself… to humanity).

And yet he finds himself swallowing hard at the flash of slim legs and the warmth of her smile as she waves at him, seeing him waiting there on the portico of the British Museum, half in the shadow of one of the huge columns. He moves forward and down, into the sunlight, and watches her trot up to him, up the many shallow steps. _So light a foot will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint…_

“You look beautiful,” are the first words out of his mouth -- but she _does_ , in a shirtwaist dress splashed with bright flowers over skirt and bodice, its collar modestly buttoned, black cardigan (not cashmere, he needs to rectify that), and dainty black shoes (“dainty” is so twee a word, but her feet _are_ small and, as he now knows so intimately, perfectly formed, perfectly maintained, he has kissed each toe, studied the fine bones, the high arches, run his fingers over smooth heels (pumiced weekly in the bath) on his way to well-turned ankles, the swell of strong calves, knees that are no less than a work of art, slender yet muscular thighs…). He shifts, once more disconcerted, and thankful for his Belstaff. Yet her outward appearance, the one not teasing his hindbrain, is not only beautiful, but _demure_ . To his gratification and, really, astonishment, _she is for him alone_ . (It was not always so ,of course, there was the execrable Tom, and a few others before him, and he has no right to be jealous (curiosity at uni having expunged his own claims to innocence, however drug-addled and unimpressive the incidents may have been) but he _is_ , he’s always felt possessive toward her (though previously loath to admit it, even to himself) and never more than now, and he’s thankful she hadn’t been a virgin that first time since adding such a defining layer of ownership would probably have turned him quite murderous (how much clearer was his understanding of crimes of passion, really he should have done this years ago (and certainly _she_ thought so)) -- not to mention that the skill she had acquired, combined with his own recent research (and he would _not_ feel guilty about Janine, she had been well compensated (and getting rid of the beehives had certainly been the frosting on her payback cake, however unwitting)), had enhanced their initial interactions to a remarkable (heartstopping… unfathomable) degree.)

Glowing, she takes his hand. “Thank you. You look beautiful, too.”

He gives a chuff of laughter, then (taking advantage of their private bubble in this very public space) has to ask, “Molly… were you always… affected by the mere sight of me?”

She blushes charmingly. “Of course. Always. You know I was.” She is suddenly shy, her gaze flickers down and, with the hand not held, she reaches up to run light fingers over the lapel of his coat, lingering near the red buttonhole.

There is something both painful and prideful that swells in him. He squeezes her hand, and says (in a tone meant to be rueful but comes out rather more suggestive than not), “Well, I assure you, you have your revenge now. In spades.”

Her eyes meet his again, reflecting both pleasure and amusement. “I’m very happy to hear it. Since we’re _here_ , though--”

“Rather than--”

“Precisely. Why did you send for me? You said there was a special exhibition of some kind?”

“Yes...” He finds himself hesitating, his love of science and human oddities suddenly in conflict with his deep regard for this woman, _his Molly_ , and the many things that their future together might hold. “I came across it when I was doing some research here this morning. Thought you’d find it interesting. It’s called _Midwifery through the Ages_.”

And she laughs, delighted. “I bet it’s horrific -- _and_ fascinating! Let’s go then. You can show me all the most gruesome displays.”

She pulls him by the hand up the step to the portico, but in the shade and not-quite-privacy of the wide column he stops her, pulls her close. Kisses her. Tenderly. At length. With great satisfaction.

“Sherlock!” she breathes when she finally can.

“I love you, you know,” he says. Absolutely compelled.

“I know.” She smiles up at him, happiness and a promise in her eyes. “Do you want to go--”

“God yes!”

“--inside?”

“Oh. Right.” He’s grinning like an idiot. “I mean, as you say, as long as we’re here.”

“Come on!” she says, grinning, too, and grabs his hand.

And still bemused, he lets her lead the way.

     

~.~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's Molly's dress, and the pic that inspired this...

 


End file.
